


Let it Snow

by ineffablenerd



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Jealous Crowley (Good Omens), Jealousy, M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Oscar Wilde - Freeform, Pining, Pining Crowley, Snow, Snow and Ice, it would be funny if it weren't so sad, neither of them slept with him though, they just each think the other did
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-30
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2020-11-08 05:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20830340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffablenerd/pseuds/ineffablenerd
Summary: Crowley just wanted to let Aziraphale know that he would be hibernating for the next few months, but now he is stuck in the Bookshop during a storm. Which could have been cosy and a good chance to stare at his beautiful Angel for a while if there wasn't this stupid customer who seems to think they have a monopoly of the angel's attention.





	1. The Weather outside is frightful

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in over 5 years so let me know what you think!  
Thank you @KannaOphelia for encouraging me to actually write this and fixing all my mistakes!

Crowley absolutely hated the Winter. And he _despised_ Christmas. Once the last crisp and golden days of late September were over (not that you got many of those in London) and the rainy, windy, dark, and _cold_ months began, his serpent nature came out in full force. Centuries ago, when he had started living on this damp island he would go south most years.

(“Like a duck!” Aziraphale once burst out laughing on one of their longer and more alcoholic evenings.) After that incident, he stuck to another marginally more dignified option: Hibernating.  
He’d just go home, shout at his plants to not _dare_ to wilt in his absence, put the heat in the bedroom on high, tripled the blankets and pillows, swaddled himself like a gigantic demonic burrito1 and didn’t get up again until late April. 

Some years he had assignments to "Ruin the memory of Her Son" but he stuck mostly to ruining the Holiday Spirit. Spreading _Avarizia, Gula_ and especially _Invidia_2 over presents and Christmas dinners. He hated it. Wading through Christmas Cheer like disgustingly happy, sugary mud, souring it wherever he went. Well, everywhere but one particular bookshop.

Of course, Aziraphale _loved_ Christmas. He loved the cosy nights by the fire, he loved mulled wine and Christmas biscuits, he loved mince pies, Christmas roasts, and oh _Lord_ did he love snow (again, not like it snowed that much in London.)

Even though he did not decorate the front part of the Shop (“Customers might see it! They might think they can _buy_ books as presents here!”) everything that wasn’t visible from the shop’s windows looked like a volcano of tinsel and fairy lights erupted and showered everything in red, white, green, and gold. There were plates of biscuits (that somehow knew not to crumble or smudge on any page or book they might come in contact with) on every available surface, a string of tartan stockings strung across a fireplace where the perfect fire crackled and danced day in day out without ever letting one single spark out of the confines of the stone. And of course he had a gigantic Christmas tree strewn with baubles and ornaments from every century and region that celebrated Christmas in any form. It was _hideous_. And so was his collection of Christmas sweaters that he wore, unironically, even venturing into colours a bit and leaving (most of) the tartan behind.

Any time Crowley had to be up and about during December he spent days at a time over at the shop. Mostly perched on top of the fireplace, coiled up in snake form hating every second. He never thought about going to the flat instead. Mostly because the flat didn’t have a fireplace to perch on top of. It certainly didn’t have anything to do with the Angel offering him mulled wine and biscuits and tea and hot cocoa every few hours. And it certainly didn’t have anything to do with watching said angel bustle about humming Christmas songs of the last two millennia and winter solstice songs of the last six.

* * *

Crowley had come into the shop one morning in early december just a few months after the Nopocalypse to tell Aziraphale he would be hibernating for approximately the next four months and to postpone any dinner reservations for two he might have planned. But Aziraphale had been busy sorting through a pile of freshly arrived books (positively ancient cookbooks by the look of it) and he even had a customer, a middle-aged, plain enough woman in a tartan pencil skirt and beige turtle neck sweater. She was browsing the shelves but didn’t seem to actually want to buy anything, which seemed to be the reason Aziraphale left her alone and didn’t throw her out immediately. Crowley had swaggered through the door in his usual manner, draped himself over the couch he secretly thought of as _his_ couch, and immediately started sulking when he saw he didn't have the Angel to himself. A customer meant he couldn’t whine3 about the whole snake and cold part or in any other way have the Angel's undivided attention.

“Angel, the weather is positively disgusting today.” Crowley theatrically threw his arms over his head like a regency era damsel fainting in distress. 

“Yes, dear. I know.” Aziraphale replied distractedly, head buried in a crate of old knitting patterns. 

“Angel?” The woman who was also looking through the knitting patterns asked inquisitively. 

“Mr. Fell… Ezra, is this man your… _partner_?” 

The way she said ‘partner’ did not imply business partner. It also sounded vaguely… shocked? Put off? Like anyone since the literal dawn of time had seen Aziraphale and didn’t instinctively put him in the category ‘confirmed Bachelor’ or ‘friend of Dorothy’ or, more recently, 'gay as fuck'.

Crowley tried to turn his surprised laugh into a cough but only succeeded in almost falling off the couch. 

“Yeah, Angel, am I your _partner_?”, he mocked, trying not to let any honest curiosity or worse _hope_ shine through. 

Aziraphale who already had started to blush at the Woman’s question somehow turned another three shades darker. 

“Crowley is nothing of the sorts!” He sounded embarrassed at the mere notion. Crowley could understand why. Of course Aziraphale would be disgusted to have anyone think a _demon_ like him could be anything more than... well more than what really? A Foe? An Adversary? They weren't that anymore, the Arrangement had gone on too long, they'd gotten close, but were they friends? Crowley hoped they were, but he understood if Aziraphale didn't want to sully his record by calling a demon his friend. Even if it hurt right where his heart was supposed to be. Demons didn't have a heart of course. They were beings of pure evil and didn't have a heart that felt like a crumpled up piece of paper that someone threw away at the thought of an Angel not wanting to be associated with them.

His inner definitely-not-monologue was interrupted by Aziraphales answer:  
“He’s an… acquaintance” Aziraphale took a big breath. “An old friend.” 

Now that was new. Crowley could feel his face light up and was suddenly very glad that his sunglasses hid his eyes. He shouldn't be feeling these things. He shouldn't want to be _friends_ with an _Angel_. But he had always been bad at doing the things he should, and not doing the things he shouldn't do.

The woman seemed satisfied with the answer, smiling to herself, while digging deeper into the patterns. Crowley didn't like her. At all.

"Who are you anyway?" Crowley asked, trying very hard not to start hissing with seething hatred at the thought of a woman, a human! Being all chummy with _his_ angel. "Not many Hum-errr-people my _dear_ friend here is on a first-name basis with." He emphasized the _dear_ with a devilish grin. 

Thank Hell _again_ for sunglasses. This way noone could see how his eyes flickered over Aziraphales face to gouge his reaction. 

What was that small expression? Amusement? Surprise? Endearment? A small skip in his heart as he realized he was in love with his demon and the demon with him as the slow motion close up of their faces starts and the orchestral music swells as they both go in for the k... better not get lost in absurd and absurdly specific unrealistic fantasies. They were friends. The angel even _admitted_ that now. No sense in ruining this with Crowley's Horrible Very Bad Feelings That Should Stop4.

He interrupted his train of thought just in time to hear the woman's answer. For some reason she had blushed almost as deeply as Aziraphale had just a moment before.

"Oh, I am just a frequent customer, well I say customer, more of a serial photographer of knitting patterns and recipes I want to try, I could never afford to buy them all, anyway I just come by here so much and umm Mr. Fell, umm Ezra and I just got to talking so much, it felt umm, appropriate to umm..."

Urgh, she was a rambler. Crowley hated her more with every passing second.

"Anyways. My name is Julia. Julia Renard. And you are?"

"Crowley." He'd be blessed if he gave her his stupid fake made up first name. Aziraphale glared at him with an unmistakable "don't be rude!" expression. "Anthony J. Crowley. A pleasure to meet you Julia." He even got up and offered her his best polite handshake. Stupid blessed Angel and the power he had over him. As revenge he said nothing, letting them fall into an awkward silence. Served that angel right.

Only Aziraphale didn't seem to notice the awkwardness. He just went right back to sorting his stupid patterns.

Julia and Crowley kept staring at each other, neither wanting to break the silence first, vague dislike hanging between them like a slightly off smell.

Julia broke first. "Well I should go... there's something..." she grappled for an excuse, "Dinner. I have to go make dinner"

"It's 11 a.m. dear! It's barely time for lunch!"

So Aziraphale _was_ paying attention. Just not to Crowley.

"If she wants to go, let her go Angel. I didn't come here to stay either. I just wanted to tell you I'll be on my... _winter vacation_ soon, so don't make any dinner plans. You know how to reach me if anything happens."

With that and (what he hoped was) a sufficiently venomous smirk towards Julia he swaggered back to the door, opening it with a snap.

And was pushed back by a very wet and heavy gust of wind. The weather, which had already been bad even for London standards when he came in, had doubled down in its efforts to be the coldest, wettest _and_ windiest of any season in London in written history.

The frozen rain had turned into what could be called buckets of sleet being thrown at you from every possible angle and the wind had fun pressing people in just the opposite way they were walking no matter what direction they were walking in5.

"Oh Lord!" The door closed against the wind without anyone touching it as Aziraphale rushed forward to see if any book in the front had gotten close to even the tiniest speck of water6. Satisfied with the lack of water damage he turned back.

"No one opens this door again until this weather is safe!"

* * *

* * *

  1. of course he would never call himself that. He had dignity. ↩

  2. greed, gluttony and envy respectively ↩

  3. Demons don’t _whine_ anyway. ↩

  4. patent pending ↩

  5. Crowley was vaguely reminded of 40 days in an Ark for a second. ↩

  6. _miraculously_ they hadn't. ↩


	2. Since we've no place to go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What am I supposed to do now? Read?"
> 
> \- They're trapped in the Bookshop now, but for how long? No one knows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh I sure hope I can keep up a sort of regular pace with these updates. Right now I have a slight fever so this might be incoherent who knows.

Both Crowley and Julia started their objections but neither could withstand the sheer force that was the angel's will to keep that door closed. So just a few minutes later they were both seated on the couch, mugs of hot tea1 in hand, while the storm mockingly rattled at the shop's windows and the Angel sat across them in his old armchair, hands folded on his lap, eyes on Crowley as if to tell him to behave.

Crowley managed to be both sprawled out and curled in his spot at the same time, limbs looking like they didn't necessarily have the right joints in the right directions to put into a position like this. He looked like he sat on that couch a _lot_ and wasn't used to sharing. And that was completely on purpose. Julia on the other hand sat _proper_. Not like she was uncomfortable, although she definitely was with Crowley next to her like that, but like this what she sat down like. Knees together, legs crossed at the ankles, back straight, hands in her lap, a mirror image of the angel. _they are the same_ Crowley thought. Yellow eyes, still hidden beneath sunglasses, darting back and forth between the fragile human next to him, and the soft angel in front of him. What was he even doing here. Cutting through this perfect picture of a quiet old bookshop with his lanky, sharp, red and black existence. He didn't belong here. In this beige and tartan place. On this beige and tartan couch. With this beige and tartan angel. 6000 Years of trailing after him didn't mean a damn thing if he just didn't fit next to him.

"And what now?" he hadn't meant for it to sound _that_ snappy. Maybe just a little bit. "Boardgames? Build and Ark?" Crowley smirked. A little joke between immortal beings. You wouldn't understand little human. Me and him. We go way back. You couldn't keep up if you tried with your pathetic lifespan. Even _if_ you have the same hobbies, and the same style, and the same disgusting _kind_ softness about you as my angel. He doesn't belong to you. I was here first.

"How about we just continue what we had been doing anyways? If we're stuck here for a few hours why not keep reading until it gets a bit better?" Julia piped up right though Crowleys hateful stare. That she couldn't see. Not only because of the glasses but also because her eyes were completely fixed on Aziraphale.  
"A marvelous idea! A little rain can't stop me from sorting through these patterns! Julia, dear, there's a delightful patterned sweater vest that I wanted to show you." did he have to agree with everything this woman said? They both stood up. Like a duet, doing the same little pat on their legs when they stood, the same little glint in their eyes reserved for hidden paper treasures yet to be found. Crowley felt his own presence in the room, like a dissonant sound in an otherwise perfect sonata. The third wheel. Discarded. Replaced, like a moldy piece of fruit ruining a perfect still life.

"And what am I supposed to do. _Read_?" A whining three year old. A constant reminder of a painful past. _Why are you in this bookshop demon?_ What do you think this angel is willing to give you. He just called you a friend but who knows. You're an embarrassing excuse for a friend. Just leave the angel alone. He has everything he needs without you. He saved the angel the embarrassment of having to think up an answer:  
"I'm going to go have a nap on the backroom couch. Just. Don't come to wake me, I can find my way home when the weather clears a bit." He avoided any eye contact or even looking at either of the pair, perfectly standing next to each other, knitting patterns in hand. While slouching past them. Every ounce of him trying to present retreating in casual boredom, rather than hurt and fleeing.

If he had looked up, he might have seen a shadow of hurt and confusion pass over Aziraphale's face. The slight twitch in his hand as if stopping himself from reaching out.

But he didn't.

Instead he nonchalantly swaggered over to the backroom door, nonchalantly opened it, and nonchalantly closed it behind him. Keeping the tremor in his hand hidden deep inside himself.

Behind the door the swagger left him instantly. He crumpled against the door wishing himself to be somewhere entirely else. But he wasn't. To make matters worse, when he finally looked up, there was no couch. He had been _sure_ there had been a couch in the back room at some point. Normally what he was sure about would actually happen but the bookshop was different. The bookshop didn't care about what Crowley thought was real2. He cursed. Not one of the modern short curses you hear on the street every day. A long, deep curse, in a forgotten language so dark, the lights dimmed for a second3.

There was no way he would walk back out there, admitting there was no place to take a nap. He was a _snake_ there was _always_ a place to take a nap.

He rarely turned into a snake these days. Central London just wasn't the place for a big black snake. Or even a small black snake. But if there had ever been a time where he could use less limbs, it was now. So he breathed out and with it his body sank down into a loose coil of black scales. Not so small as to feel like too much demon in a too small body, but small enough to actually fit in the back room4 Being a snake was a lot easier than being in a human form. More instincts, less thoughts. Well, technically it was the same amount of thoughts (and feelings) but being a snake really brought things into perspective.  
So Crowley slithered behind a crate of unsorted books, coiled up and thought about all the annoying things you don't have to do if you're a snake.  
Don't have to pretend to buy a bus ticket every time the angel makes you take the bus.  
Don't have to buy pastries in the morning to bring the angel when you made rude suggestions, that were totally a joke, again when you were drunk the night before.  
Don't have to pretend to like food so you order the thing you know the angel wants to try and let him have all of it.  
Don't have to offer your hand to the angel for balance as he sits down and then get to hold it for 2 glorious second on a bus back from Tadfield...

That memory had lasted him for weeks. Feeling the angels soft hand in his bony one. The weight and grip of it as the Bus had jerked forward. Holding on for about .25 seconds longer than strictly necessary. The thought about if the Bus had accelerated just a little bit faster, maybe Aziraphale would have lost his balance completely and would have stumbled onto him. How he would have protested and made fun of the angel's balance while reveling in the warm softness of his body on him even for just a few seconds... If Crowley hadn't been a snake at this moment, he would have purred. Now this was a scenario to take a nap too. And so he let his memories, mixed with his imagination, drift him to sleep.

* * *

* * *

  1. Crowley's somehow smelled like black coffee even though it had been filled from the same teapot. ↩

  2. it did however care about what Aziraphale thought was real. So there was always a place to put just one more book into this shelf or that. ↩

  3. of course there was the odd chance of the storm hitting just right just that second but... ↩

  4. About the size of a Python that could conceivably still be an exotic pet. Even if it's colouring was a bit unique, and pythons don't normally have cobra like fangs. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the Kudos and Comments from the first Chapter already!
> 
> I know my chapters are pretty short, but I like having a chapter per scene and the scenes apparently aren't that long!  
I'd promise they'll get longer but I don't know if they will.
> 
> Also, in my head Crowley doesn't eat, he only drinks. That's because he doesn't like the concept of solids in his body. He always orders the food Aziraphale almost ordered so his angel can taste more different options!


	3. Oh I'll hate going out in the storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley wakes up from his nap, and Julia and Aziraphale are still talking about books. A great time for a snake to shake things up a little. Or isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. This chapter just didn't want to be written.  
I literally wrote this and did not proof read at all so. This might be a mess.  
But hey, at least it's an update!

When Crowley woke up, it was dark. Darker than it should have been. The skylight that normally brightened the Room at least a little bit, either with sunlight or, more often, with London's light pollution, was completely covered with snow, or sleet, or hail apparently.  
He could hear muffled voices outside the door. Apparently Aziraphale and Julia were still comparing their findings in that box. How many hours could you spend with _knitting Patterns_? How many hours had he been asleep anyways? He never new if it had been 30 minutes or 30 years when he woke up after a nap. On one memorable occasion, way before the Arrangement, it had been 120 years. He tried to look at his watch but quickly noticed his continued lack of limbs.  
Well, no time like the present. He'd just ask how long it had been. Make the human uncomfortable for a bit. Something to get his spirits going after the nap.

The voices outside had stopped. Curious about what would make Aziraphale shut up about books for even one second, and more than willing to scare a stupid human with his snake form, he carefully slithered out of the back room and zig-zagged through the shelves, his serpentine form obscured by the stacks of not-yet-reshelved books everywhere.  
On his way through the stacks he envisioned what scaring Julia would be like. She would shriek, maybe hit at him, he'd hiss and pretend snap at her, Aziraphale would take his side of course, have respect and reverence for all living things and all that. Maybe he would pick him up to get him away...  
The worlds first blushing snake turned around the last shelf. His stealth course had put him right between the door and the pair of book enthusiasts, cutting off Julias way if she decided to flee the store. Crowley stopped in his tracks. What if she instead fled into Aziraphale's arms? What if the Angel took _her_ side instead? He couldn't have that. Putting them even closer together against a common enemy? That was _his_ thing! Not to mention he would be said enemy and he didn't stop the entire apocalypse to be Aziraphale's _enemy_ again. He had just been promoted to friend!

A small noise ripped him out of his thought. Had he been monologuing again?

Julia was standing _way_ too close to his angel. Looking up at him out of her stupid beige turtleneck. Holding Aziraphale's _hands_. "You know Ezra..." she had the audacity to let a nervous _tremor_ into her voice. "You have to have noticed how I'm feeling. And, interrupt me if I'm wrong but. I think you feel the same way." Aziraphale stayed mute. Crowley couldn't see his face properly from where he was on the ground. What was the look on his face? He was hoping for disgust. Pity. Everything he imagined Aziraphale's face to have when he fantasized about himself confessing _his_ stupid feelings.

He could have already interrupted her. Told her that she was wrong. That he didn't have feelings of any kind but... he hadn't.  
Instead Aziraphale _squeezed her hands_? Julia just as Crowley apparently saw that as confirmation and leaned up and closed the distance to Aziraphale's face.

Crowley fled. Through the door that didn't even open to let him out, into the feet of snow outside, reshaping into someone with limbs when the serpentine body didn't go fast enough. He just ran, through the deserted Soho streets, through the howling wind, unloading yet more snow and ice onto him and every object that dared to be outside in this weather. He had no coat, no scarf to protect his face from the cold. It felt hot regardless. It was wet with the snow, or something sulphuric.  
He didn't care.

He knew. He had always known Aziraphale would never be his. But to see him with a human? Especially such a perfect female human with all the right interests and hobbies and beige sweaters. He couldn't bear it.  
He had never dared hope for anything more than being allowed in the angels presence. Being called a friend had felt so perfect a few hours ago. Now he knew it was _just_ a friend. Somehow that was worse than not being a friend at all.

He stopped in the middle of a road.  
Through his burning eyes he was blinded by the white all around him. The snow hadn't had time yet to turn into brown sludge. He felt wrong surrounded by all of this pureness. Dirty, like the disgusting little demon he was.

All energy drained out of him as he fell to his knees. He could just lie down here. Wait for the hellfire inside him to be subdued by the cold around him, just enough to let this corporation freeze to death. Maybe get hit by a car. Ruining one last person's day. If he discorporated now they would never let him back up here.

He'd never have to see Aziraphale again. He'd never see Aziraphale again. That alone would be torture enough, not to mention everything else they'd do to him even if they thought he couldn't be destroyed by holy water. Even after all this. Even after he saw that perfect little human kiss him. He could not just never see him again.

His broken heart shattered further. This was his punishment. To Fall had only been the beginning. To love an angel hopelessly, that was his torture. He could never stop. He would be there and congratulate his friend on his love. Remind him to be careful not to let Heaven know or he'd Fall just like the Watchers did. Console him when the Human inevitably grew old and sick and died. Julia. He'd better start practicing saying her name without tasting brimstone on his tongue. Start pulling the pieces of his heart back together once again and put on his best sarcastic smile.

"Congratulations" he shouted into the snowy void. The tears still stung in his eyes, or was it the snow storm?  
He needed to drink alone for a bit. Get back into character.

He snapped his fingers and let the wind sweep him off to the mayfair flat.

At least there he wouldn't have to smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An evil part of me, that just wants Crowley to suffer as a way of working through some feeling myself, wants to just leave it here.  
(I won't though)


	4. Why should he worry when he's nice and warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale deals with the unpleasant situation, then realises Crowley is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have sneakily upped the amount of Chapters again.  
Next one is the last one I promise!  
Also: no beta I write, then I post. No editing. Like Hemingway with an internet connection.  
(I'm not comparing my Angst/Fluff to Hemingway though. That would be... something)

Aziraphale did not know how he came to be in this situation. He had been having a really nice afternoon. He had been sorting through new arrivals. He had been talking with one of his favourite customers. His favourite mostly, because she literally would never even try to buy any books, just look at them and ask brilliant questions about "vintage" cuisine, which he loved to answer. And now there was a human face on his face.

He had been irritated when she had taken his hands, confused when she had started talking about feelings, trying to find something to say that would not hurt her too badly and squeezing her hand reassuringly. At least that's what he thought he had been doing. Apparently he had only encouraged her. He took an impossibly big step backwards, letting go of Julia's hands.

"Oh dear." It wasn't so much the confessed feelings or the physical contact that irritated him. Both had happened before over the Millenia1. He just hadn't seen it coming at all. Maybe because he had always been surrounded by his books this time so he hadn't paid enough attention. It didn't matter now. What a mess. And Crowley... He had looked so hurt when he went in the back room. He should really check on him.

"I'm so sorry I have to do this." he said apologetically and snapped his fingers. Julias face went slack, her eyes glazed over.

"You don't know me. You asked me for directions to the next Coffee Shop, where you will work on your Vintage inspired cookbook. You will ask the nice man writing his Novel there out for dinner2. You will awake, thinking about what ever you like best." He sighed and snapped again. Another great customer lost. Customers who didn't want to buy anything were so rare.

"I'm so sorry Mister... Fell was it?", Julia had come to, a slightly confused expression on her face.

"Yes, that is me." Aziraphale sighed. "The coffeeshop is right down the street on the right. can't miss it. They have a great selection of pastries if you're so inclined." "Thank you for the tip! And the directions!" and with that, she left the store for what was hopefully the last time. He sighed again. What a waste of a good conversation partner.

Interesting humans where hard to come by. They had such a short lifespan, most of them just lived their small lives with nothing much to say about it. At least nothing much to someone who had been on this planet since its creation. But even the interesting ones paled in comparison to his oldest friend. He had called Crowley his friend out loud today. And Crowley hadn't even protested!

Crowley had always been a constant in his life. A rock to lean on, a snakelike, lanky, confusing, beautiful rock. Up until he took a nap for 50 Years. Or went off the grid for a few years for some temptation.

So not really a rock at all. But beautiful nonetheless. Aziraphale blushed to himself. He shouldn't be thinking these thoughts. They weren't allowed. But they were the truth.

If there had been advances toward Aziraphale over the years and centuries, this was doubly and more true for Crowley. The demon turned heads where ever he went. He had to know that or he wouldn't dress _like that_.

The mere thought of Crowley taking any human up on the offer mad Aziraphale's stomach turn. Even though he was sure it had happened a lot through time.

Oscar Wilde had been one of the more persistent advances. And one of those few truly interesting Humans in the last few Centuries. Oscar had mad quite a few advances toward Aziraphale as well, and Crowley had been furious to find out he wasn't the poets only target of affections.

Come to remember it, the look of hurt on his face, when Crowley had found him and Oscar in Oscar's conservatory drinking tea, had been very similar of the one today. Just that Crowley had never met Julia before. There was really just one person he wanted to talk to about this, but Crowley was still asleep.

It had already been a few hours, maybe he could wake him anyways? He chided himself for the selfish thought. Nevertheless he walked across the shop and quietly opened the door to the back room.

It was empty.

Aziraphale looked around and even went as far as picking up a crate or two of books to see if Crowley was maybe napping in snake form, which he tended to do sometimes, if there wasn't a comfortable surface big enough for a human body. The demon was no where to be seen. A bitter, worried taste rose in the Angel's throat. Had Crowley woken up and left? Then the blood in his veins became ice. What if Crowley had seen Julia's advances and chosen to give them privacy?

He definitely needed to rectify that false conclusion. For his own sake. He couldn't let Crowley think he would do something as stupid as voluntarily kissing a Human. Even though he could never tell him the real reason. That no one, Human, Angel, Demon or else, could ever get close to the place Crowley had in his heart. That the thought of it being _Crowley's_ lips on his made him feel lightheaded and faint. That every time the Demon paraded around him in his newest sprayed-on tight trousers, or jokingly tried to "tempt" him with a grin after an evening of drink, he had to close his eyes and breath, gathering every ounce of self control not to take him up on the offer and ruin their relationship forever.

No, he couldn't not see Crowley right now. He needed to talk to him. Tell him what happened with Julia. The real version, not the version Crowley may or may not have seen when he had left. He grabbed his coat of the hanger and left the store at once, almost not noticing the Snowstorm still swirling around him.

He was about to hail a cab, when he noticed the Bentley, on the other side of the street on what would have been a yellow line, almost entirely covered by snow. Alarm bells shrilled, and tightened his chest. Crowley would never abandon the Bentley. He hadn't been a day without it since he bought it. Aziraphale crossed the snow covered street, the snow being polite enough to firm up enough to step on and not sink in knee deep like it should have done, and wiped the Window to peer inside.

Empty.

What could have made Crowley leave without his beloved car? Visions of Heaven and/or Hell returning filled his mind. Hell hounds tearing at his coat, Gabriel's blinding smile as he summoned another carafe of holy water...

He forced himself to breath and closed his eyes. Then he reached out in his mind for any lingering Angelic or Demonic energy around. There was his own of course. And the remains of Crowley's familiar essence. The Bentley was saturated with it, but there were lingering bits in a wavering line, away from the bookshop down the street, nothing else. He breathed a sigh of relief and let his senses reach further. The half mile over to mayfair further.

It was faint, but Crowley was there. In his flat. Or near it at least. Reaching for Demonic energies wasn't a science. No matter how familiar the demon in question.

Aziraphale hailed for a cab, and seconds later a very confused older cabby pulled up to the curb. He had been sitting on his couch having a snow day until just a moment ago. The Angel, realising the inconvenience he caused, promised an extraordinary price for the six minute ride and the Cab sped off, rock salt appearing in front of it as it went.

* * *

  1. Most of them had been male humans though, for some reason. Even when it was deemed improper by the fluctuating human societies for two men to share such feelings. ↩

  2. Aziraphale had seen him around a lot the past few weeks. He always stopped at the Shop's windows, but never looked at the books. More importantly, when Julia was there he stopped way longer than when she wasn't. Aziraphale was sure he'd say yes to a date. ↩

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of reading Papers about Chemical reaction networks I've written at least 3000 words for 3 or 4 different projects today.


	5. As long as You love Me so

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is hurting, and Aziraphale is on his way to confront him about leaving.  
What can go wrong?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!  
Last Chapter. I did it. Wrote it, barely proof-read it. No Beta.
> 
> I'm sorry it took so long, it was supposed to be a one-shot once upon a time.

Crowley didn't know how he had gotten back to the flat. Or how long it had been since he got there.

He was currently draped over a ridiculously overpriced and intensely uncomfortable designer sectional with glasses and bottles of his most expensive alcohols scattered all around him, but no amount Macallan whiskey nor small batch gin could keep him from suffering. His eyes stung with sulphur and salt as his glasses lay forgotten on the floor where he had flung them against the wall. His trousers and silk shirt had disintegrated into black briefs and a satin robe the second he had slammed the Apartment door shut behind him.

This was worse than Oscar Wilde. Back then there was plausible deniability. They had just been drinking tea. The way Wilde had looked at Aziraphale could have landed him in jail for gross indecency but at least he hadn't seen the angel _reciprocate_.  
This was different. This was the undeniable truth that he had wasted 6000 Years and he'd probably waste 6000 more because no matter how much it hurt, he knew he wouldn't stop. He took another sip of Château Lafite directly from the bottle. It had been Aziraphale's favourite vintage as well. He had wanted to casually bring it to the bookshop at some point but never dared to. It didn't matter now.

He still had a few left. Maybe he could bring one as a Wedding gift. He groaned, then screamed into the next pillow.

The sofa hadn't come with pillows. They had manifested for the sole purpose of being screamed into.

He almost didn't hear the knocking.

Knocking? Who the fuck knocked on doors these days. That's what a concierge was for. And even if the concierge was on break which they damn well shouldn't be in this kind of expensive building, there are doorbells for a _reason_ hell bless it. Get some manners.

He threw one of the pillows he had just screamed into vaguely in the direction of the door without looking up. It landed not even half way there.

The knocking continued.

Fine. Maybe screaming at a delivery person or census person or confused neighbour or who ever it was would make him feel better.

He plowed a path through the chaos around him, and violently opened the door, fully prepared to scare some human into some intense therapy.

In his hallway, hair and coat dusted with melting snowflakes, hand still raised to knock, stood Aziraphale. Somehow he was still looking perfectly angelical even in the horrible hallway lighting.

Crowley blinked, as the mere sight of the angel made the alcohol leave his system.

Aziraphale was in his house.

He opened his mouth but there weren't any words so he closed it again.

And then something big and heavy was in his arms, snow-wet hair was in his face and a distinct scent of books and vanilla and incense filled his nose. Aziraphale was hugging him.

"I've been so worried!", a muffled voice came from about his collarbone, "I saw the Bentley just standing there in front of the shop and you were gone..."

Crowley's mind was still processing the angel around his neck, wanting nothing more than closing his arms around the other's body like he was holding on for dear life.

But he always had to ruin everything.

"Where's Julia." his voice was ice and fire and bile.

The arms around him vanished, as Aziraphale took a step back and looked up at him with an indecipherable expression.

"You saw." it wasn't a question. Neither was it an answer to the one asked.

"Thought I'd give you some privacy." An answer to an unsaid question. He hesitated for a split second.

"Congratulations." It almost didn't sound insincere.

"That conundrum was nothing to congratulate... What do you even care!"

Crowley felt like he was accused of something. Why did he care? Why did _Aziraphale_ care about _him_ caring?! Why did anyone care?!

They both fell silent.

"I don't." what a lie. It felt like a lie. It sounded like a lie. It was dramatically framed as a lie by the chaos left by his tantrum right behind him, that Aziraphale could clearly see.

They stood like this for a long time, or maybe just seconds. Both too angry, too hurt, too full of feelings to move.

Then Aziraphale's expression softened.

"You do..." "What?" "You do care." Aziraphale seemed to glow up suddenly, taking a step towards Crowley now, who backed away from the sudden shift in conversation. "Just like you cared about Oscar." Oh great. Bringing up the worst humiliation of his life.

"I always thought it was because you wanted _him_! That you were jealous because he didn't make Dorian Gray a redhead." "Thats.. no... I... what are you even talking about?"

What was happening? This couldn't be how it ended. The apartment door fell closed behind them as Aziraphale connected more and more dots. Moving forward while the Demon backed away from what he was sure would be the end of everything. "But that wasn't it was it? It was about me."

Crowley was cornered. He was found out. All his worst fears were coming to a head. He'd never thought he'd get smitten in his own apartment. He'd never see his angel again. And there wasn't even any holy water left to kill himself with.

His back hit the Wall. There was no escape now.

Then his arms were full of angel again but this time instead of wet hair there were lips on his lips. Up was down. Black was white. That couldn't be right. Aziraphale pulled back. The loss of it brought Crowley back to reality. "I... I am so sorry dear." The Angel cleared his throat. "I overstepped. I assumed..."

Crowley's body was faster than his brain. He grabbed Aziraphale by the front of the shirt and turned the both of them around, slamming the Angel against the wall and pressing against him like life itself depended on it. His mouth found the other's like it was made for it. The angel's lips were still slightly parted from apologizing and Crowley's serpentine tongue took almost immediate advantage of that.  
His hands flattened against the other's broad chest, exploring first to the side, then up and underneath the shoulders of the coat, clawing at the layers of fabric. Meanwhile Aziraphale's hands were leaving the bare skin on his back burning, as they dragged across it, pulling the demon even closer.

This coat needed to be gone. Crowley grabbed the lapels of it and tried to push them over Aziraphale's shoulders, separating himself from the angel by a fraction of an inch. It was enough to realize what he was doing.

Carefully he opened his eyes, (when had they closed?) and tried to read the angel's expression.

"Too fast?", the trembling in his voice could not begin to describe the agony in which he was. Don't stop this. Please don't ruin this.

"No."

And with that the Angel shrugged out of the coat, (how he did that with the demon still holding it remains a mystery), and pulled Crowley back onto him.

* * *

A few weeks later, the weather had cleared up just in time for Christmas, and the snow was glistening on roofs and windowsills as if to make up for the storm that had brought it.

An Angel and a Demon were leisurely strolling, hand in hand, down a street in Soho, making their way back to the bookshop from a delightful lunch.  
Suddenly Crowley stopped in his tracks, focusing on a couple on the other side of the street, who were walking hand in hand the opposite direction. It was Julia. And with her a man, about her age, looking at her like she hung the stars, while she was excitedly talking about something, using both of her hands to gesticulate even though one of them was connected to another person.  
She noticed the demon staring, and seemed confused for a second, then recognized Aziraphale next to him, and gave him a little wave, before continuing with her story and going on with her way. Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's hand reassuringly.

"I told you I fixed it. No need to be jealous."

"M'not jealous", the demon grumbled, pouting just enough to prompt the Angel to reach up and kiss him on the frosty nose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing kissing is hard.  
Finally got to the Happy End part! After writing so much yearning and angsty pining we all deserved this.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also working on some other ideas, so keep an eye out for those maybe? If you want. There's one that includes swing dancing.
> 
> Chapter titles are song lyrics from let it snow. (Thanks again KannaOphelia for the idea to just steal song lyrics)


End file.
